


Dead Like Wash

by Edwardina



Category: Dead Like Me, Firefly
Genre: Crack, Crossover, Gen, Humor, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-29
Updated: 2006-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-14 12:17:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the fics dealing with Wash's death in the world, this crossover with Dead Like Me is the Charlie Browniest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Like Wash

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Nutkin for the look-over! Sorry if anyone was spoiled, but I'm pretty sure you've all seen Serenity by now!

When Wash sees his body draped on the pilot chair, with possibly the largest spike ever through his middle, it's kind of freaky, but he's had worse dreams.

Well, actually not. This one's pretty much the worst.

He can see technicolor red blood dripping down his legs onto the metal floor of the ship and says, "Wow. Mal'd sure be pissed off if this was his dream."

It's strangely silent. Wash doesn't even remember getting hurt. He doesn't remember any kind of pain - just the bumpiness and total terror and exhilaration of Serenity's crash landing. Maybe Simon shot him up with painkillers. That'd explain the wonky dream and the bizarre feeling of calm weightlessness. It doesn't feel like floating at zero G's, just somehow a relief of sorts - an emptiness, like he could walk through Serenity's metal hull if he wanted.

"It's not so much that thing you were talking about," says a voice behind him. For a moment, Wash thinks it's Badger coming up behind him with a load of his goons, but... "That thing," repeats the young man, stepping into the cockpit and looking around, nonplussed and not seeming to even notice Wash's bloody body. "What's it...?"

"A dream," says a flat voice; one of Badger's Goons Only Not. It sounds like a girl. A pissy girl. "A _dream_ , Mason."

"Right, that," laughs the young man. "Yeah. It's not a dream."

He looks right at Wash (Wash where Wash is standing, not Wash where Wash is slumped over in a bath of blood and really big spikes).

"You are far too tall and willowy to be Badger," Wash observes.

"Willowy?" The young man looks pleased. "That's a new one. I quite like that. _Willowy_."

"Mason, would you move it!" demands the girl's voice, and the Tall, Willowy Mason stumbles into the cockpit, slipping a little in Wash's blood and toppling into the other pilot's seat.

"Oi - good God, what a mess you've made! Just look at this!" Mason says to Wash. The girl behind him steps into the cockpit, her wan face and long blond hair dyed red in the alarm light, and she grimaces at the blood on the floor.

"Gross!" she mutters. Then she looks at the cockpit and grimaces again, as if it's just as disgusting as Mason skating around in the dark puddle of Wash's life blood. "What a piece of _le se_!"

Yeah, Mal would definitely be pissed off if this was his dream.

The blond girl finally looks at Wash, standing there beside his own body.

"So, you're the deceased, huh."

"Appears so," says Wash. "Weird and random, isn't it?"

"Kinda," she says. "Haven't seen an impalement in forever." Now she's looking at Wash's body and creeping up to the skewered chair, looking impressed. "You really got done in _good_."

"Yeah," Wash says agreeably. "Don't even want to know what my scars are gonna look like."

The girl exchanges looks with Mason the Tall and Willowy.

"Sorry," she says, "but you're not going to have any scars. You're kinda too dead."

"Your body will look really cool, though," Mason assures him. He's got his feet up on Serenity's helm and is kicking at switches here and there with his feet, turning the comlinks on and off. "With a ginormous hole in it. It was a badass way to go, wasn't it, Georgie-girl?"

"Most excellent Reaver-related casualty I've seen in a while," agrees the girl. "But if you two don't mind, the smell of blood is making me nauseous and I'm kinda concerned I might get tetanus if I stay here much longer. Can we leave already?"

Mason jumps up happily, and the girl, George, gives one last unimpressed look to the cockpit.

"Thanks for stopping by," Wash says, "to gape in awe at my corpse."

"No problem," says Mason, and claps Wash on the back, making a strange tingle of deja vu run up Wash's spine, just as if he's felt it before, in some place with this same red feel to it. "Just doing our duties. Now, you come along with us."

He starts to steer Wash towards the door, but Wash holds fast.

"Sorry. I gotta wait for Zoe."

Mason just laughs. "My friend," he says reproachfully, and glances at a yellow slip of paper in one hand. "Washburne. H. My good friend H. What's that stand for?"

"Hoban," says Wash.

"All right. I'll stick with Washburne. Washburne, the not-so-willowy. Washburne, the rather short but stout and manly nevertheless. My good friend Wash. You are dead. Very spectacularly dead. I know you want to wait for... for good ol' what's-her-name--"

"Zoe," supplies George, hanging in the doorway impatiently.

"Yes. Good old Zoe."

"My _wife_ ," Wash says.

"Your dearest of darlings, Zoe," corrects Mason. "Yes. I know you want to wait for her, but do you really want to see her face when she comes back here and sees this incredible mess? I mean... who do you think's going to have to clean you up?"

He lets Wash consider this.

"Where are we going?" asks Wash, as Mason steers him out the cockpit and down the steps.

"To Der Waffle Haus," says George.

"That's a funny name for a ship," says Wash.

It turns out that Der Waffle Haus is that chain of cheap diners that popped up on streetcorners by the thousands on planets like the one Wash is from. He hasn't been in one for so long that the colorful place strikes him as unreal. Everything's clean and bright, and it smells like maple syrup.

George and Mason lead him to a booth where two people are already sitting, one a man with a coffee, face hidden behind a newspaper whose headlines whirred meaninglessly this way and that, the other a classy-looking platinum blonde in a pink kimono who's steadily ignoring her ice water in favor of powdering her nose and batting her eyes at an old-fashioned compact.

"Make way," George intones. "Move it. Newbie comin' through."

At this, the blonde glances up, and there's a rustle as an older, balding gentleman in a crisp white shirt not unlike the ones Simon wears folds the paper and gives Wash a mildly interested look-over.

"Me oh my," he says gallantly, "fresh blood."

"Can we not talk about blood, please?" George says pointedly, slumping into the seat next to the blonde. "This guy just got impaled by, like, the biggest spike ever. Ugh, Mason!" she adds, as Mason crams himself into what's left of the seat beside her.

"Cozy," says Mason. "I'm just giving our new friend Wash here the seat of honor. Hoji would've wanted it that way."

Wash doesn't think it's Hoji's wishes that are making Mason look so creepily delighted. Actually, now that there's actual light, Mason looks kind of like he's had a round or two of mudder's milk.

"Sit down, new friend," says the man, and Wash does. "Impalement, huh? That's classic. Old-school stuff like that went way out of fashion there for a while!"

"Ooh!" shivers the blonde. "I'm glad one of you got him! Impalement's never been my thing. Much too messy." She smiles at Wash knowingly, then offers a friendly hand. It feels soft and cool as Wash shakes it slowly, blinking. "I'm Daisy, Daisy Adair. It's lovely to meet you, Wash. If you don't mind my asking, how tall are you?"

"Uh," says Wash. "Is this heaven?"

This gets a round of everything from casual chuckles to snorts of amusement.

"That never gets old," Daisy says.

"Yes, it does," George replies impatiently, and Wash can't help but notice that she's stabbing at the table with her butter knife to punctuate each word. It's a mite disturbing.

"Have a sense of humor, Georgia!"

"So, hey," Mason interrupts, digging into his jacket, which looks like it was stolen off a dead Independent for the color and dark stain around a suspicious tear in the front. "Let's have a toast to our fallen, shall we? Daisy? Rube?" He raises a flask. "I owed him twenty credits and now I don't have to pay him back. To Hoji!"

"Yeah." George toasts with her butter knife. "I'll miss Hoji."

"I won't," says Daisy distastefully. "He was too..."

"Short?" asks George.

"Bald?" asks Mason.

"Perverted?" asks Rube.

"What the - Hoji wasn't _bald_ ," says George.

Mason's emptying his flask down his throat.

"No, but he was perverted," says Rube, as if it settles the matter. "He was always checking out my ass."

"Well, who wouldn't?" slurs Mason.

"It is mighty fine. I cannot tell a lie."

"I dream long sexy dreams about your ass at night, Rube."

"Earlier, you couldn't even remember what a dream was," George points out.

"Anyway, I'm glad we've got a new face," Daisy says cheerfully, and all eyes return to Wash, who's patiently been waiting to wake up from this nonsensical dream. "It's been, what? Five years or something, since Hoji came on board?"

"Daisy, it's been like - twelve!" says George.

"Oh, it has not!"

"Yeah! Remember? Hoji was a victim of the Alliance coup on Deyton?"

"I remember that," says Wash suddenly, looking up from watching a hefty waitress pour some coffee for a lone man with a handlebar moustache. "It was eight years ago." 

"Well, you know what they say," says Rube. "Time goes by slower on the rim. Kiffany, can I get some more coffee over here, please? And I think we're ready to order."

The waitress, who's now busy wiping down the bar in the front of the restaurant, nods and smiles.

"Now, Georgia, how about splitting a delicious protein shake with me?" Daisy asks.

George stabs at the table pensively. "I dunno, it's kinda hard for me to sip those things after I've seen someone's bloody body pinned on a gigantic spike of Reaver doom..."

"Not naming any names," grins Mason, who's obviously shit-faced now.

"Come on," Daisy coaxes. "I'm in the mood for chocolate!"

"Well, okay."

Kiffany the waitress ambles over, ready to get their orders, and in addition to the protein shake, Mason orders egg drop soup, Rube orders a short stack drizzled in cherry syrup ("Tales of your carnage inspired me, my friend," he says to Wash), and upon being stared at expectantly, Wash asks for a beef kabob. Rube, Daisy, George, and Mason spend the next consecutive five minutes finding Wash " _much_ funnier than Hoji."

It's not quite the same tableful of laughter as Wash is used to. Der Waffle Haus' lights are flickery and fluorescent, unlike Serenity's warm yellow lamplight, and although it's Mason the Willowy who smells of grog and not Jayne, Daisy with an irrepressible sense of cheerfulness instead of Kaylee, Rube keeping them all in line instead of Mal, and George with the deadpan voice instead of his beloved Zoe, there's a familiar sense of family. The meal is much better, as restaurant food tends to be in this 'verse, and Rube even picks up the check.

"Don't I have to be going somewhere in particular?" Wash finally asks them all.

"Just where do you think you're supposed to go?" counters Rube, now occupying himself with the newspaper again. "Hey, here's a wacky coincidence. What's a five-letter-word for 'cleave'?"

"Gouge?" suggests Daisy. "Carve? Spike?"

"It ends in 'c-e'."

" _Lance_ ," says Mason, who seems to be trying to sleep on the table. "Helloooo."

"Wow, Mason, that was almost clever."

Wash tries again. "Crossword puzzles and waffles and laughing at my misfortunes are all well and fun, but shouldn't I be crossing over or something? That's assuming there's an afterlife to cross over to."

"There is an afterlife," Rube says, "and you're livin' it."

"...So this _is_ heaven?"

He gets another group laugh.

"Actually, you're right, Daisy. That can still be funny."

"Wash," mumbles Mason into the table. "My funny little friend Wash..."

"Much funnier than Hoji," Daisy repeats.

"Spiked before his time... I'm calling you Spike from now on, Washy. I'll be Willow and you'll be Spike..."

Rube doesn't even look up from his crossword puzzle. "As heavenly as the coffee here is, Wash - categorically, no. Metaphorically, sure, provided you enjoy attempting to eat starchy protein cakes with chopsticks. But no, this isn't your final destination. This is just a long wait. A long wait for a ship that has no docking schedule. You may as well get comfortable, here, in this sticky vinyl booth, belly full of a hearty breakfast. You're one of us now."

Wash blinks. "So... are you some kind of... Posthumous Breakfast Club?"

"Now that's just getting ridiculous!" Daisy says with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"Oh, can I be Bender," mutters Mason.

"As much as I appreciate the sentiment, I think I'd rather just go ahead and get to that final destination. This has been a fun trip, but I'm ready to wake up." Wash crosses his arms.

Rube frowns and rubs out one of his crossword answers. "No can do. You went to flight school. You took a hazardous job. You decided to risk your life. Where did you think you were going to end up? Those roads all lead here."

"What are you saying?"

"Little man, I'm saying that you're now a grim reaper. What's a four-letter-word that means 'obvious'?"

"Grim reapers take souls," George says bluntly, seeing Wash's look of confusion. "We take souls and lead them to the other side. You were Hoji's final reap. He crossed over after he popped your soul in the Maidenhead, but substantially before you got kabobbed, and now you're stuck with his crappy job and with the four of us. Congratulations."

"Oh," says Wash sarcastically. "Of course. It's all clear now."

"If you need a place to stay, you can crash with me and Daisy and Mason. I don't know if you noticed on the way here, but our crappy little boat's one we inherited from a bunch of Reavers. It's kinda retro. Oh, don't worry," George tacks on, "it's no longer a den of rape and cannibalism and shag carpeting. Daisy's got a real touch when it comes to home decor."

"It's very homey," Wash says, "when you ignore the charred remains of innocent people strapped to the nose."

"Yeah, well, it beats riding a bike," says George.

" _Very_ homey," Wash repeats.

"You both are simply _too_ sweet," says Daisy. "But we don't know Wash very well. For all we know, he could be a very untidy person, and we already have one of those living with us."

"Mrgh," Mason says to the table.

"Well, you don't have time to debate about it now," Rube says, and waves at someone just outside the diner. It's a woman with dark, curly hair and two long, heavy-looking guns in at her belt. For a moment, Wash is reminded of his beloved Zoe, because he can see as she walks into Der Waffle Haus that she busts heads and breaks hearts. "You gotta give Roxy a lift for me. I've got a minor revolt on a space station I need you all to pop in on."

Rube takes out an old leather notebook and fountain pen, and the woman with the guns strides right up to their table.

"Who the hell's this?" she asks, eyeing Wash.

"Roxy, this is our new friend Wash," Daisy says politely. "He's Hoji's much funnier replacement. Wash, meet Roxy. She's a bitter, bitter old woman with no love in her heart."

"I often describe myself the same way," says Wash, and offers a hand to Roxy. She just looks at it until Wash hesitantly withdraws it again, then speaks directly to Rube.

"I got your wave. This the same station as last time?"

"Believe so," says Rube cheerfully, and hands her three little yellow squares of paper, which Wash can see some numbers on.

"Oh, lord," Roxy mutters. "Here we go again. How many times I've been there in the last five years, I don't even know. I should have my own damn passcodes by now."

Rube hands two notes to Daisy and two to George, then lays one on Mason's head.

"Well, if this little yellow Post-It is right, maybe this time will be your last," he says with a smile, and this time hands Wash his very own yellow square of paper. Wash curiously turns it right-side-up and reads it:

_A. Niska_  
 _Skyplex 391_  
 _Ezra, Georgia System_  
 _E.T.D.: 23:31_

Roxy's reading it over his shoulder.

"So the old bastard's finally gettin' it, huh? About time," she sneers. "I've been tired of waitin' for his dumb ass to get humped."

"E.T.D. -- Estimated Time of Death?" Wash asks.

"Very good, Wash!" smiles Daisy.

"You see the time on that Post-It?" asks Rube pointedly. "You better hit atmo in the next hour if you're gonna get there with time to reap that old man's sadistic soul. Hold on, now, eager beaver," he says as Wash springs up immediately. "You make sure Roxy here shows you how to pop souls, _dong ma_? It's real easy. Nothing in the 'verse like a good soul-popping. I think you'll find you'll enjoy it."

"Oh, yes," says Wash grimly, "I think I will."

Because as far as dreams go, this one's getting downright poetical.


End file.
